Thursday, August 14, 2014


I have been thinking hard about what I wanted to say about my 13th radiation treatment.  Maybe too  hard, in fact.  I keep thinking I should have something profound or insightful or at least vaguely interesting to say.  I should be deep and introspective, vigorously mentally negotiating the cancer experience with a vengeance reserved for those of us with years of therapy under our proverbial belts.

But I don't have anything to say.  I just don't.  My mind is quiet right now.  It's soft and gentle and forgiving, which is an enormous gift under these circumstances.  I know I had cancer removed from my body, I know it's likely to return (in the same spot or in another/others), I know the radiation process isn't without its own risks, and I know I'm doing the right thing for my body, my long-term mental health, and my short-term vitality.  I know those things to be true, for me, right now.  I know these aren't the right decisions for everyone, nor would they necessarily be right for me a year from now, nor a year ago.

But right now, I just have this.  And it's okay.  Today, right now, it's okay.  It's okay to be quiet.  So that's what I'm doing.


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